Page 8 of The Rules
The corner of his mouth curves—measured, almost amused. “Alright then. Let’s test that theory."
Without a word, he pulls a file from the neatly stacked pile beside him and slides it across the desk. The motion is effortless, detached, like he’s already decided she’ll fail.
“Summarize," he says, bored. “Thirty seconds."
She doesn’t hesitate, flipping through the file at a speed just shy of reckless. The words blur, but she focuses, scanning for key points. She barely gets five words out before another file lands in front of her with a dull thud.
“Not fast enough." Sinclair’s tone doesn’t shift. Another file. “Next."
Kath swallows the sharp retort that burns the back of her throat. Fine. If this is how he wants to play it. Her grip tightens around the pages, but she adjusts, forcing herself to think faster, speak faster, process faster.
Another file. Then another. And another.
He’s pushing her, waiting for the hesitation, the stumble.
The moment she’ll crack.
But she doesn’t.
With each file, she sharpens. Adapts. Refines. Her summaries become quicker, more precise, her breath even despite the mounting pressure. If he wants a war, she’ll give him one.
His expression doesn’t change—detached, unreadable—but his eyes flicker. Recalculating.
Finally, after what feels like an eternity, he sits back in his chair, watching her. The silence stretches. Then—
“Not terrible."
Katherine keeps her breath steady, eyes on the files in her hand. She feels the tension in her shoulders, tight but controlled. No praise, no clear signal—just enough to keep her uncertain.
She glances up once. His gaze is already elsewhere, face impassive, like she hadn’t spoken at all.
Sinclair shifts slightly, the corner of his mouth lifting in something that might’ve been a smirk—or maybe not. Hard to tell. Nothing in him gives much away.
He turns back to his computer, dismissing her with a single sentence.
“Try not to embarrass me.”
That’s it. No confirmation. No follow-up.
Kath exhales, nods once, and walks out—back straight, pace measured. If he’s testing her, she won’t give him anything to mark down.
She steps out of his office, tension still coiled low in her chest. She should feel accomplished—but instead, her hands tremble slightly as she buttons her coat. Not from fear. Just pressure. The sense of being watched. Measured.
She exhales through her nose, rolling her shoulders back as if she can shrug off the last ten minutes. Her pulse is steady now, but her mind keeps replaying the exchange, cataloging every pause, every flicker in his gaze. None of it felt accidental.
The elevator dings. Doors slide open. Forward, then.
A hand catches the door. Patty.
“Where are you going?” she asks, brow lifted.
Kath doesn’t quite look at her. “Back to my desk.”
Patty hums, light but knowing. “Right. To get your things.”
She stops. “What?”
A vague wave of Patty’s hand toward the office.
